


Dusk

by Echo (Lyrecho)



Series: Recollections [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: (But Leading Up To A Canon Divergent AU), Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Political Intrigue, Pre-Canon, Someone Give Mycen A Hug, Worldbuilding, he needs it, headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 08:46:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14787266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrecho/pseuds/Echo
Summary: Rudolf, old friend, he thinks, as the low lights of Ram’s boundary fires come into view against the purple-grey dusk. I hope you know what you are doing.Because I am not sure that I do.After his banishment from Zofia's court, after the death of the King's firstborn, Mycen had resigned himself to a lifetime lived out roaming Zofia's borderlands and helping keep the peace where he could.He was not expecting a summons from his homeland, and a friend he had thought forgotten.He was not expecting Albein.





	Dusk

In the beginning, Mycen is sure that the only reason Ram Village is so welcoming to him is his weapons. The village may be so hidden away in the south that the only way to find it through the thick woodlands surrounding it beyond pure happenstance is _knowing_ where it is, but that seclusion - while it is the reason he chose the place to live in hiding while raising Albein as best he can - is also an undeniable invitation for bandits.

Ram is smaller than most villages Mycen's seen before, in Zofia and Rigel both, and with Mila's Bounty providing Ram's people with all that they could need, the only real trading that takes place is between neighbours. They don't take too kindly to outsiders - but a small collection of farmers, artisans, their wives and children are hardly an intimidating sight to any one of the packs of hardened criminals that seem to be prowling Zofia's countryside all the more frequently of late. Mycen, while getting up there in years, has a horse, a lance, armour lined with gilt and a stern presence cultivated from years of leading men onto the battlefield. The first time after his arrival that a group of scoundrels and sneak thieves show up to harass the women of the village for their wares and time while their husbands are off tending to animals and field, he drives them off with ease (undisciplined, untrained, the lot of them), and from then on it is _known_ in the south: Ram Village is protected, and well.

This simply leads to other towns and villages becoming the targets of such men, he knows, and he desires nothing more than to drive them out of Zofia all together - but Albein was entrusted to him, delivered carefully, secretly, and he cannot risk betraying the trust placed in him by his dearest friend by drawing too much attention to the _lack_ of bandit problems appearing in the south. So he sighs, and sends prayers to Duma and Mila, for all that the Mother and Father will even hear them through their ever growing madness.

After the first lot of bandits are chased off, and then eventually they stop coming at all once word has spread about the presence of a retired (yet formidable) knight, the villagers warm to him considerably. Women that have appeared fearful of him at best before then crowd his house with giggles and their children, trying to arrange playdates for them with Albein, whom Mycen has admittedly been keeping secluded in his house just on the edge of Ram - partly out of helpless paranoia, partly out of being at a complete loss for what to _do_ with an infant.

Not that Albein was exactly an infant, anymore - it had been a long trek from the border to Ram Village, and all in all the journey had taken the better part of year. The boy is walking now, if unsteadily, and reaching for countertops frequently enough to give Mycen ulcers from stress. The boy is endlessly curious, and half as determined as a child as his father is in his old age.

And it's for that reason, at least, if no other, that Mycen is grateful that the people have warmed to him. He needs help with keeping an eye on Albein, given that he only has so much time in the day to take care of the house, take care of the boy, and take care of his quiet informant network, keeping an eye on the Princess Anthiese for him - the Zofian babe Rudolf had told him about, with the counterpart to Albein's brand on her hand. The women who have children about Albein's age are the first to truly reach out to him, and it is with no small amount of amusement that Mycen finds himself 'one of the girls.' He was of common birth, so it wasn't like he had no idea how to cook, clean or farm - those skills, while rusty, eventually came back to him easily. Parenting, however, was something he had never experienced - not in Rigel, nor in Zofia's court. Thus, he was incredibly grateful for the group of mothers, each at _least_ half his age at the oldest, which had adopted him as one of their own and done their level best to lighten his load.

Lyra is one of the younger women, married for only one year when Mycen had arrived in Ram, and her daughter, Faye, is the oldest of the current lot of children born in the village. A year older than Albein, and born out of wedlock, which would have been a scandal if she had been a daughter of any other town. As it is, little Faye is the only girl among her playmates, and she is thus Ram's princess - the first time Mycen acquiesces to leaving Albein alone for the day, it is with Faye and Lyra, and the sight of a small, chubby toddler with her hair in uneven pigtail and hands on her hips bossing around the crown prince of Rigel is a sight he isn't sure he'll ever forget; especially not with Albein eagerly following her commands with grin that is half gum, half milk teeth.

He wishes Rudolf were here to see it. He wishes he had a safe way to let his old friend know that his son is growing, healthy and happy. He wishes that he was capable of decimating the entire corrupt Duma Faithful single handedly so that none of this was necessary - but wishes are the currency of fools, and Rudolf, never a fool, has a _plan_ \- and no matter how much he may not like it, Mycen will follow his Emperor's will.

He sighs, deeply, and Lyra grins at him, mistaking his melancholy for a reaction over the children's antics. "You don't need to worry so much," she says. "It's only for a few hours, and Alm's pretty easy to look after. You should just enjoy this time to yourself while you have it!"

Alm; the name the villagers know Albein by, the only name the prince himself knows. Already, so young, his features aren't quite Zofian, and while - given that it's fairly common knowledge that Mycen himself is Rigellian born - the look of Rigel in his face isn't something he can hide, 'Albein' is too obviously foreign of a name, and a noble one besides. He doubts anyone in Ram knows that, but too much caution never hurt anyone.

"I trust you, Lyra," he says. "It's Faye I'm worried about. She's turning into quite the terror - she'll have the other children rallying up behind her in an uprising against bedtime soon."

Lyra laughs, and the two children look up and over at them at the sound, before immediately dismissing them once more as boring, and turning back to whatever game it was they were playing. From just a moment's glance, it's completely incomprehensible to Mycen.

"I'll be leaving the village for a few hours," he says conversationally, not looking away from the children as Albein unsteadily rises to his feet and tries to tug Faye up after him. They're off with giggles, then, into the small yard set up and enclosed along Lyra's vegetable bed where she's keeping the lambs she's hand raising during the day. Softly, he smiles at the picture they paint - Faye in a faded dress and a wool cardigan likely made from her family's wool spun into yarn and Albein covered in mud, both cuddling squirming lambs to them, the animals still young enough that their tails are still at full length; not yet cut short. "I'm sorry for the trouble, but if I get back later than expected, would you mind terribly feeding Alm dinner, too? I will, of course, make sure to return the favour."

Lyra laughs, and waves him off. "I don't mind," she assures him. "And you don't have to worry about ' _payment_ ,' you silly man." She stresses the word like the very idea is ridiculous to her. "We're neighbours. Help is what we do, and it's not like we're ever at a shortage for food to eat, thank the Earth Mother."

Mycen smiles at her, politely. "Thank the Earth Mother," he echoes, and exchanges a few minutes more of light hearted small talk before taking his leave - and heading off to the thick of the woods that shelter Ram Village, to meet up with one of the older squires acting as a spy for him back in the Zofian capital.

The girl jumps to attention when she sees him - she looks exhausted, slumped against a tree and half asleep before Mycen makes his presence known, and he feels a tightening of anxiety stir in his gut. The letter sent ahead of her to warn of her arrival hadn't held any information for fear of it falling into the wrong hands, but there had been enough vague blanks between lines to let Mycen know it was urgent - hence why he had gone to the lengths of keeping Albein busy and watched by an untrained villager woman when he'd much rather be keeping his own eyes on him at all times.

Apparently, he had yet still underestimated how just how urgent the news was.

"Beatrice," he says, and she blinks up at him with tired grey eyes. A scion of a second generation of unlanded nobility, she's likely the granddaughter of one of the common born men and women that had been knighted alongside Mycen, all those very long years ago. It's a trait that makes for the perfect spy amongst court in the current political climate - Lady or no, she's still 'common' enough that most of the old blood nobles she'd serve wouldn't pay any attention to whether or not her listening ears were in a room with them while they spoke, even if she was sitting at their feet, and thus felt slighted and prejudiced enough to be loyal to Mycen, a man with similar background, rather than necessarily the King she had sworn her oaths of fealty to.

"Sir Mycen," Beatrice greets, one hand coming up in a sloppy salute as the other presses against her mouth in a hopeless attempt to hold back a yawn that cracks her jaw. "Sorry, sir, but I was flying all through the night." She jerks a thumb into the trees behind her. "My pegasus is grazing back there, we should be good to take back off in a few hours."

Mycen nods, sternly. Once, years back, he would have invited her to stay in Ram for the night, if not in his house, rather than forcing her, so clearly exhausted, back out into the wilds. But as it is, he cannot risk anyone from the Zofian capital laying eyes on Albein, and he cannot have anyone from the village seeing any of his informants from the capital, no matter how much he may trust both. “If you were pushing your steed so hard, then your news is indeed urgent, I presume,” he says, and she nods.

“Three of King Lima’s children are dead,” she says, eyes downcast.

Unease swirls in his gut. It had been only two years since the eldest of Lima’s children had passed, with it pinned on Mycen – though without the proof that it had definitely been him, he had been lucky to escape execution in exchange for exile – and with how quiet it had been since, he’d almost believed that it well and truly had been an accident.

This proves otherwise. “How?” He asks.

“It was three of the elder children, on a daytrip with their mothers. A picnic out in the wilds surrounding their villa. It seems as if they were mauled to death by some manner of beast, guards and all.” The words she spits out with derision, propaganda she clearly doesn’t believe.

“And Lima has agreed to this story?” He says, mind whirring. It’s true that the boy had always been flighty, quickly growing bored with his wives and children in favour of newer, shinier ones, but he’d never been deliberately cruel or malicious so much just _blind_. He’d always been happy with simply sending off his discarded brides to countryside villas and manors and leaving them to their own devices, with perhaps the occasional visit. Mycen could not see Lima orchestrating such an attack on his own children – but neither could he see the man buying into it unless the outcome was exactly what he had wanted all along.

Beatrice shrugs. “They say the King’s gone mad with grief,” she says. “He buries himself in wine even more than he usually does, and even his favoured brides can’t get him to leave his chambers. Chancellor Desaix has held court for the past week.” Unease glints in her eyes.

Mycen, quite honestly, is surprised. Not at Desaix swooping in for power, or perhaps even a bid for the crown – the man has always had ambitions, and _he_ had always had _suspicions_ about just who had truly put Lima’s firstborn to the sword – but at the idea of Lima so full of grief that he wallows in it. From memory, the boy was always shallow, and while he may have cared for his children in some manner, Mycen had never got the sense before his banishment that Lima had truly _loved_ them.

“And what do the rumours whisper of the Chancellor?” He asks. He knows well that no matter how hard one might try for privacy in the capital, the very walls themselves have ears, and the servants probably know more national secrets than the entire House of Peers combined.

Beatrice hesitates, biting at her lip. “They say that he’s the one that killed the princes and princess,” she says. “Or that he’s the one that ordered it, at least. He… he scares me.”

And he truly does, Mycen sees. There’s a deep fright tangible in how she hugs herself, and he wonders if, perhaps, she no longer feels willing to act as his spy. “There is no shame in fear,” he says. “It would be best, I imagine, if upon your return to the capital, you take great length to avoid Chancellor Desaix.”

She looks up at him, confusion in her eyes. “But –” she begins, and Mycen cuts her off. Gently, of course.

“I have other allies,” he tells her. “Beatrice, if you are unwilling, I would not force you to put yourself in danger.”

Stubborn determination lights up in her eyes, and Mycen is torn between fond exasperation and amusement as she sets her jaw. “I’ve got this!” she says, insistent. “Absolutely and totally, I’ve got this.”

She’s a child, barely past her sixteenth year – only a squire, not yet a knight, and has never truly been tested in live battle. She sees the danger, and fears it, but she does not _know_ it. If Mycen could, he would send her home to her parents and tell her to stay out of the war that is coming forever. But he cannot, and he will not, because his duty to Albein – to Alm, safe in Ram Village – and his promise to Rudolf requires that he use what and who he can to keep Zofia and Rigel both safe.

“If you are sure,” he says, and though he didn’t mean it as a question, she nods once, firmly.

“I’m very sure,” Beatrice says. “I know even just doing this isn’t much, but in any way I can, I want to _fight_ for my kingdom. For Zofia. I don’t trust the Chancellor, Sir Mycen.” She smiles at him, sweeter than a child training to be a soldier has any right to be. “But I trust you.”

Mycen sends her off not twenty minutes later, heart heavy as she sends him a cheery wave over her shoulder. He watches the sky until she’s well and truly vanished into the middle distance, and then sighs, before turning to make his way back to Ram, and Albein. It’s getting late, the sun low in the sky, and there will be plenty of work to do in the morning, now – other allies he’ll have to get in contact with, another letter to write for Rudolf that he’ll never get to send.

And – just maybe – reaching out to a trustworthy smith for a child sized sword. Albein might be too small, too young, to begin training with blades as he is right now, but if the past year has taught Mycen anything, it is that the boy grows faster than he can believe –

– and that they may no longer have the luxury of time on their side.

_Rudolf, old friend_ , he thinks, as the low lights of Ram’s boundary fires come into view against the purple-grey dusk. _I hope you know what you are doing._

_Because I am not sure that I do._

**Author's Note:**

> AU musings:
> 
> Personal HC that for the first few years of Alm's life, Mycen referred to him mentally as 'Albein' as both a sort of coping mechanism and as a way to constantly remind himself that Alm was Rudolf's, not his. There was a sort of split between 'prince' and 'grandson' in his mind, and once he jumped that hurdle to embrace Alm as family, _that_ is when he became 100% 'Alm' to Mycen.
> 
> Faye is important to me and her being important to Alm is important to me, and since her victory quote implies that she's closer to Mycen than the other Ram Kids and I made her a Cavalier in my playthrough (so she was a Gold Knight like Mycen), her being important to Mycen is also important to me.
> 
> This was originally going to be a bit longer and deal with some Ram Kid shenanigans, introduce the rest of the crew and shove in a lot of my Valentia Worldbuilding, but the tone took a turn for the especially heavy sometime after I started writing Bea's parts and so I cut the other half out, since it no longer fit. Hopefully, I should get it cleaned up and posted before the end of the week.
> 
> (Also Bea is also important to me and while she will not be a major character or play a major part at any point throughout this series, she will be recurring. I love her. You should too.)


End file.
